


my sun sets to rise again

by inkwitt



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Friends to Lovers, I suppose, M/M, Multiple Lives, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Young Victor, and yuuri with two u's, but also not really, first real fic, hope it's not too bad!, i use victor with a c, like they die but they're fine you feel, oh i almost forgot to add, so I guess it's kind of like, young Yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9448016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwitt/pseuds/inkwitt
Summary: ~~ ON HIATUS ~~After a bad fall one morning at the ice rink, eleven-year-old Yuuri loses consciousness instantly. When he wakes up he is lying in an unfamiliar bed in a room he doesn't recognise. After discovering he's somehow been sent to medieval France, Yuuri spends every day trying to figure out how to get back home – until he dies, and wakes up in yet another time and place. In this way Yuuri lives out life after life, never knowing where he'll end up next time. After all, there's nothing to connect each of his lifetimes – nothing at all, except, perhaps, a certain individual with unmistakeable blue eyes...





	1. Some basic info

So, before I launch into the first chapter, I just wanted to explain how this all works, and what decisions I’ve made for the sake of easier storytelling. The first thing I want to explain is that Yuuri and Victor’s cases are slightly different in this story. Yuuri wakes up in a different time and place at age eleven every time, which is the age at his fall occurs. Meanwhile, Victor is literally reborn every time he dies, i.e. in a new family, as a baby.

Another quick thing is that I’m writing with the assumption that the events of YoI take place in 2016. So, at the start of the story, Yuuri is eleven, meaning it is sometime after November in 2003. As he gets transported to alternate time periods I’ve allowed both Yuuri and other characters to be aware of their age as it would be using the Gregorian calendar, even though in some of the earlier time periods they would not have adopted this calendar yet. Again, this is for the sake of convenience. Likewise, I’ve written Yuuri in as if he would blend in perfectly wherever he is ‘reborn’, although in reality his ‘foreign’ appearance would probably run him into some obstacles or awkward questions in some of the places/times I’ve put him in.

I’ve tried to be somewhat accurate with my historical facts, but I don’t have that much free time to write this so I’ve had to be efficient with my research. If there are any gaping holes in my historical knowledge, please don’t hesitate to let me know in the comments, although I may have taken some liberty with historical accuracy for the sake of plot (sorry if that bugs you!) and therefore might not be able to change it. I’ve also kept Yuuri and Victor’s names, because I couldn’t bear to change them. I don’t, however, have them mention their surnames because again there would be some problems with historical compatibility there.

In advance, sorry about the predominance of European history – it’s what I’ve mostly studied at school, so I chose to go with what I felt I knew more about.

I’ll probably add in more little explanations in the notes of each chapter as I continue to write this, but please bear with me and my stretching of history! It was the only way I could get this story to work, on a practical level :’) thank you so much and I hope you enjoy!

(Un-beta’d. Title from Richard Browning's  _At the "Mermaid"_.)


	2. Hasetsu / Marseilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “M-Marseilles? But isn’t that in… I thought Marseilles was in…”
> 
> Guiscard waits, a small frown furrowing his eyebrows, arms crossed as he waits for Yuuri to complete the sentence. Yuuri can’t bring himself to finish, and finally Guiscard himself supplies, “France?”
> 
> Yuuri sinks back onto the bed, light-headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the YoI characters!

_Hasetsu, Japan. 2002._

 

Patches of sunlight hit the ice.

Swiftly, quietly, Yuuri steps onto the rink and strokes towards the middle, glancing back with a small smile at the lines he carves into the smooth surface of the ice. There’s something within him that loves being here alone. Of course he enjoys being with Yuuko – bright, friendly Yuuko who always looks after him – but at the same time, he likes these moments in which he can practise completely by himself, without the feeling of wide, expectant eyes boring – like lasers – into his back. He may only be eleven but he’s not stupid: he knows what pressure does to his performance.

He warms up by circling the edge of the rink before deciding to practise some of his jumps. His coach had warned him about doing jumps without anyone to watch out for him, but surely he can get away with doing some simple ones? He starts off with some singles and doubles, before impulsively wondering if he can try that triple salchow his coach started teaching him last session. He hasn't really learnt it fully yet, but imagine how impressed Yuuko would be if he could pull it off next time she watches him! He feels like he's in particularly good condition today – a better time to try than ever, surely?

With that thought in his mind Yuuri prepares for the jump, heartbeat starting to speed up. He bites his bottom lip in anticipation and exhales a little shakily as he gains speed. His blades make crisp noises that ring out in the silence as he takes a short, sharp breath. A split second before he takes off he feels a flash of doubt and a rapid succession of anxious questions slice through him – maybe he shouldn't? What if he can't? He's all by himself, who’ll help him up if he falls? It's too late, however, and as he launches into the air with worry lacing his thoughts, he already knows in his gut that he isn't going to land it. Bracing himself for impact as the gleaming white ice rushes up to him, Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, thinking you could do anything by yourself! And now look…_

He hits the freezing surface, and everything fades.

 

 

_Marseilles, France. 1334._

 

When he opens his eyes, his head is throbbing. He gingerly lifts a hand to the sore spot and is surprised to find no bump, no blood, no cut – no sign of his hard fall. Maybe someone happened to find him on the ice straightaway and gave him first aid?

He’s in a bed, but not his own. Warily, Yuuri glances around at the room; from what he can tell in the dim light, it’s decorated enough to suggest that whoever’s taken him in is obviously wealthy. He’s always been warned about stranger danger, however, so he slowly slides out of bed to go thank his rescuer and leave as soon as possible.

Scratchy fabric tugs against his skin, and Yuuri looks down in confusion, suddenly realising that he’s not in his own clothes. Rather, he’s draped in some sort of heavy fabric that weighs down his shoulders, with embarrassingly tight pants (if Takeshi saw him he’d never stop laughing––!) and – where are his glasses? He can see perfectly without them, he realises with a start. Is it possible to regain your eyesight by banging your head really hard against a rock-hard rink?

At that moment a tall, dark-haired man comes in with a cup of water in his hand. Upon seeing Yuuri awake, a pleased look crosses his face, and he holds out the cup. “I was hoping you’d be awake by now,” he says. “Have some water.”

His speech sounds foreign – unrecognisable – and at the same time, completely understandable. It’s a weird sensation, and Yuuri takes the cup silently, choosing to drink rather than answer.

The tall man nods approvingly at his long sip. “We found you out cold just outside, and thought we ought to take you in. I’m an experienced physician so I observed you for any injuries but you’re in perfect condition. We left you here for a few hours, and I was just coming into check whether I ought to let some blood, but thankfully you seem recovered.”

When Yuuri doesn’t answer yet again, he tries a slightly different tactic; simple questions, about what happened to him, where his family is, what his name is.

Yuuri answers hesitantly. “I don’t know exactly what happened – I can’t remember. My family’s… well, I don’t know where my family is, it depends on where I am now. And my name is Yuuri.” His own voice sounds alien to his ears, tongue curling around the words of a language he doesn’t know but is somehow fluent in.

“Yuuri? What an unusual name,” the tall man says, with a smile clearly intended to comfort him. “My name is Guiscard. Right now you’re in my home, in Marseilles. Does your family live in Marseilles, or are you visiting?”

Yuuri stares at him uncomprehendingly. It takes a moment for the word to sink fully into him: _Marseilles_. He knows he’s heard of Marseilles – Mari mentioned wanting to go there one day, but where did she say it was? Hadn’t she said – no, but it can’t be, he was at home just moments ago, skating at his rink, how can he be in––?

When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “M-Marseilles? But isn’t that in… I thought Marseilles was in…”

Guiscard waits, a small frown furrowing his eyebrows, arms crossed as he waits for Yuuri to complete the sentence. Yuuri can’t bring himself to finish, and finally Guiscard himself supplies, “France?”

Yuuri sinks back onto the bed, light-headed.

“Yuuri, are you sure you’re feeling alright? Can you tell me where you’re from?” Suspicion is now beginning to creep into Guiscard’s voice, as Yuuri sits staring at his hands in disbelief. He can’t _really_ be in France? Not Marseilles, _France_? This must be a prank, surely. Yes, that’s it, it’s just a big prank, probably by Takeshi (that would explain the odd clothing, too) and perhaps Yuuko’s in on it, although maybe not because she’s too nice to do something like that––

Guiscard’s sharp voice snaps him out of his train of thought. “Yuuri?”

“Can I please ring my parents?” he says faintly.

At that, however, Guiscard’s frown only deepens. “What did you say? _Ring_ your parents?”

“Yes, can I please borrow your…” Even as he’s speaking, however, it suddenly strikes him that the room is strangely devoid of the things he’d expect to see in a bedroom – no wall sockets, no digital clocks, no lights, even, aside from the candles beside the bed. Definitely no phones. If this is a prank, it’s been intricately planned – but he’s beginning to doubt that this is all just a joke. “Your… well, can I – write to them, or something?”

Guiscard’s face clears a little. “Ah, so you know how to read and write.”

Yuuri laughs at that. “Well, I’m eleven, of course I can.”

“Most little boys your age can’t! You should see the state of the peasant children.” Guiscard shakes his head disapprovingly as he searches the room for something for Yuuri to write on. Yuuri gapes at him; what does he mean, most eleven-year-olds can’t read and write? All of his friends can do both of those things perfectly well.

Guiscard is still speaking. “You know, Melisende took one look at you, and what you were wearing, and said you must be from a family of…” Glancing at Yuuri, he seems to choose his next words carefully. “… similar stature of our own. She must have been right, seeing as you’re clearly well-educated. Who did you say your parents were? I may be acquainted with them."

He hands Yuuri something that looks like paper, but it feels more like – fabric, almost. It’s only a small scrap. Surely Guiscard is rich enough to give him more paper than this? Yuuri doesn’t want to be rude, however; he’s already imposing, and his mum’s always taught him not to be a bothersome guest. The paper’s not his biggest problem, either. Guiscard clearly thinks that Yuuri’s from some rich family whose name he expects to recognise, and that might have been the only reason he even took Yuuri in. Yuuri doesn’t want to be kicked out just yet – who knows how long it’ll be until he can leave France?

“We’re not from here,” he says cautiously. “We like to travel around, though. I may have… lost them at some point.”

(He can’t even believe he’s going along with this. For all he knows, this is some crazy dream triggered by his fall, and he’ll wake up any moment on the ice.)

Guiscard considers that reply for a moment before saying, “In that case, why don’t you write a letter as quickly as possible so I can send it off with a travelling merchant? I may be able to find one heading to the same place as your parents.”

“A… travelling merchant?” Wouldn’t it be easier to simply post it?

“Yes, hopefully one with a fast horse. We want to reach your parents as quickly as possible.”

A _horse_? All the way to Hasetsu? But how will the horse cross the sea to Japan? An uncomfortable sense that something is _very_ wrong settles in the pit of Yuuri’s stomach, only made worse when Guiscard hands him a long, grey quill to write with. A _quill_. Like in the movies. And now Yuuri is beginning to feel seriously unsettled. The way Guiscard lives, the way his room is set up, the way he speaks as if he doesn’t know anything about technology, it all feels… off.

Slowly lifting his head to face the tall man, Yuuri asks quietly, “Could I ask you a question?”

Guiscard smiles down at him reassuringly. “Of course, Yuuri.”

“Have you ever heard of a phone?”

Guiscard tilts his head to one side inquisitively, considering it, before shaking his head.

“What about a car?”

Again, a brief shake of the head.

“A TV? A fridge? A _light bulb_?”

Guiscard interrupts him softly. “Yuuri… what are you talking about? What are these things?”

Yuuri swallows, reluctantly realising that his fears are confirmed. Guiscard doesn’t just live _like_ he’s in the past. Guiscard _does_ live in the past. And now Yuuri’s here too.

“Nothing,” he says hoarsely. “They’re just… nicknames, that my – um – parents gave to things, to be funny. I was just wondering if… anyone else uses those nicknames.”

Guiscard’s face softens, and he comes to place a gentle hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “I also did things like that with my son, when he was your age. We gave names to all the trees and flowers, like they were people. He’s grown up, now, of course, but I know our little game made him feel safer about the world.” His grip tightens slightly and he looks seriously into Yuuri’s face. “Yuuri… we _will_ find your family. And even if we don’t, well… perhaps I can find a way for you to stay with us. Nobody’s used this room ever since my son left for Paris, so I’m sure you could have it.”

 _Stay_ here? No way. Yuuri doesn’t know what year this is, or why he’s in Marseilles, but he wants to get back to 2002 Hasetsu as soon as possible. Even the mere thought of being stuck here makes him queasy. What if he never sees his mum and dad again? Or Yuuko, or even Takeshi? He blanches. Have they even _invented_ ice skating yet?

He smiles wanly at Guiscard and grips the quill in his hand. “Thank you,” he forces himself to say, “that would be wonderful.”

 

* * *

 

He never does end up writing anything on that paper. Why would he? His parents don’t even exist yet. He tells Guiscard that he doesn’t know where they are because they’d kept their destination a surprise from him, and as he does, genuine tears slip down his face at the thought of growing up without them.

Guiscard and his wife Melisende take in Yuuri as their own, clearly missing their own son and more than willing to raise a well-behaved, fully literate boy from what they assume to be a wealthy family. Every day Yuuri searches unsuccessfully for ways to return to his own time. He still isn’t sure what year it is, but after having explored the city outside with Guiscard, he can only be sure that he’s in a time that he and his friends would have called “the olden days”. Guiscard teaches Yuuri a few times each week, saying he wants to send him to university so he can also become a physician. Yuuri politely declines and says he’d prefer to stay home. This seems to delight Melisende, who squeezes him in a suffocating hug. In actuality, Yuuri just doesn’t see the point. All he knows about the “olden days” is that they didn’t know about science or anything, so what could he learn from their universities that would ever be useful to him?

Days turn into months, which turn into years of Yuuri wondering if he will ever see Hasetsu again. He’s been tallying his time spent here on the piece of paper Guiscard gave him, trying to keep up with his own age. His teenage years slip away and before he knows it he’s twenty-four. _Twenty-four_ … his childhood is long gone, spent in a foreign city, in a foreign time, with a foreign family. Guiscard and Melisende are lovely and have taken wonderful care of him, but he can’t stop thinking about his family back in Hasetsu. It’s simply not the same.

When a mysterious illness strikes their city he agrees to go with Guiscard to visit his patients. He has a sneaking suspicion that he knows what the mystery illness may be (he vaguely remembers being fascinated by a morbid book about a big plague – his ten year old self had found strange enjoyment in trying to find the most disgusting descriptions in it to show his friends) and he knows it hit most of Europe. Though he can’t be certain, of course, he figures he may as well see if the victims’ symptoms match up to the ones in the book. It could help him figure out exactly when he is.

When they arrive at the patient’s home a servant ushers them inside, before leading them to a room with the door slightly ajar. “He’s inside,” she tells them, and Guiscard pushes the door open, oozing professionalism, to let themselves in.

Their patient is lying on a large bed, curled up, facing away from them. Guiscard approaches the bed and murmurs something to the man, who slowly turns around and props himself up on the bed to face them. Clear blue eyes fall first on Guiscard, then Yuuri, who finds himself blushing at the steady gaze. The man smiles a little at that, brushing silver hair away from his face with delicate hands. He definitely looks sick – he’s pale and clammy, with a sheen of sweat across his skin, and shivering slightly.

Guiscard beckons Yuuri to come closer while speaking to the patient. “How are you feeling, sire?”

“Please just call me Victor,” the man says in lieu of an actual answer, not taking those bright eyes off Yuuri, who is now much closer to the bed. “I prefer it.”

“Of course. Your symptoms, then, Victor?”

“Well, honestly I’m feeling quite awful,” Victor says calmly. “I have terrible headaches, and pains all over my body. One minute I’m freezing cold and the next I’m sweating and hot. I can barely get out of bed, actually.”

Guiscard grimaces. “Ah. That doesn’t sound very good.”

“It’s very odd. I’ll be twenty-eight soon and I haven’t ever been this ill. Normally I’m quite healthy.”

“I see,” Guiscard says, his face taking on the expression that it always does when he’s deep in thought. Eventually he says, “Well, it may just be an imbalance of the Humours. Perhaps some bloodletting will help. All my equipment is just outside the room – if you’ll allow me a moment to step out and organise everything and talk to the household servants about any possible causes, I’ll be back with you very soon. You needn’t worry about a thing, Yuuri here will stay with you.”

“What?” Yuuri says, turning quickly to face him. “I’m not a physician.”

“Just call me if anything happens, Yuuri, you’ll be fine.” Guiscard is already halfway out the door, clearly unconcerned about leaving his patient under the care of a twenty-four-year-old with absolutely no medical knowledge. Then again, Guiscard seems to think bloodletting will solve any problem, so perhaps he’s not much better than Yuuri himself.

Yuuri drops into the seat by Victor’s bed with a long sigh. Victor watches him fuss and fiddle for a while, before saying suddenly, “Yuuri.”

Yuuri looks up immediately. “Yes?”

“I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Oh – yes, I know it’s unusual,” Yuuri says. “My parents must’ve been quite creative.”

“Must have?”

“Yes, I was separated from them when I was younger, and Guiscard and his wife took me in,” he says automatically, his story well-practised by now. “I’m very fortunate.” His voice sounds robotic even to his own ears.

Clearly, Victor hears it too. “Really,” he says, and it’s more of a statement than a question. He props himself up a little more and his crimson blankets slip further down off of him. Yuuri flushes again and Victor laughs softly. “You keep doing that. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Fidgeting, Yuuri nods his head towards Victor’s shirtless torso. “Well, I mean, you haven’t got anything on…”

“I’m wearing pants.”

“Not _really_ the point,” Yuuri mumbles.

“I had another hot flush a little while before you arrived,” Victor explains, seeming amused. “It was unbearable, like being in a fire. I had to get Amée to help me out of...all that.” He gestures at the folded pile of clothing beside the bed. “I’m a little better now, but no doubt I’ll feel cold soon, and I’ll have to put it all back on.”

Yuuri says, “That’s a pity,” and accidentally means it, just a bit.

Victor’s eyes glitter with mirth before a visible shiver runs through him and he winces. Concerned, Yuuri gets to his feet and presses his hand against Victor’s skin; it’s fiercely hot, but the man is still trembling. “You’re burning up,” Yuuri murmurs, and glances at the doorway. Why isn’t Guiscard coming back?

Victor sneezes, and Yuuri’s gaze flits back to him. “Are you cold now?”

He gets only a nod in response. After pulling the blankets up to Victor’s shoulders, he sits back down in his chair anxiously, wishing he could do more to help. Maybe he should’ve gone to university and studied to become a physician. At least he has the comfort of knowing Guiscard will be able to do something. His practices may seem archaic but they seem to work at least a little for most of the illnesses Guiscard is familiar with; there’s no reason why this should be any different.

“Do you remember your parents at all?” Victor says, cutting through Yuuri’s reverie.

After a moment’s hesitation, Yuuri nods, just once.

Victor smiles. “Tell me about them?”

Yuuri’s only really been able to think of his family by himself, alone in his fragments of memory, never able to talk about them for fear of saying something that will give him away. Nobody’s really ever asked, besides. Recently, he’s felt them slipping away, and being able to say it all out loud to someone – he feels like it’s solidifying them in his mind, confirming that yes, they were real, long before this life was real. He tells Victor all about how his mother is a brilliant cook and gives the warmest hugs, and how his father is funny and strong and hardworking, and how his older sister has always been so shrewd that when he was little he thought she could read his mind. Victor seems enthralled by these pointless little tidbits of information, so Yuuri just keeps on talking, can't stop himself talking, until he can feel tears pricking at his eyes and Victor starts gently stroking the back of Yuuri’s hand with his thumb.

“And you?” Yuuri says, after a moment. “Are you – all by yourself, here?”

Victor’s thumb pauses for a split second and then resumes its soothing circles on Yuuri’s hand. “I have the household staff. I hope you know, I’m not––”

“No, I didn’t say you were,” Yuuri interrupts softly, spotting the wistfulness in his eyes that gives him away. Perhaps Victor doesn’t realise it himself, but there’s something he’s looking for that this big, quiet house can’t give him. “I didn’t say you were. But even so, maybe I can come visit you after you’re better?”

Victor’s stare flickers to meet his so quickly and seriously that Yuuri finds himself looking away. “Only if you want me to. If you’d rather––”

“No,” Victor cuts in, tugging at Yuuri’s hand so brown eyes hesitantly find blue. “I’d love for you to come visit me. Maybe you can tell me more about the things you remember.”

Yuuri nods, a warm glow spreading inside his bloodstreams, to the tips of his fingers held in Victor’s grasp. “When I’m telling you,” he says, “it’s like I’m… remembering it all over again.”

The ends of Victor’s lips pull up slightly, endearingly, even as he trembles in his sheets. A content little breath escapes his lips. “I’m glad, Yuuri.”

At that moment Guiscard walks briskly back into the room with his hands full of bowls and scalpels Yuuri shifts a little away in his chair, hoping he’s not too red in the face. Guiscard, oblivious, walks over to Victor and holds up his equipment in a sort of warning. Victor eyes the scalpels a little uneasily.

“I’ll be letting some blood,” Guiscard says, “since that should get you a little back in balance.”

Victor swallows and nods, clearly apprehensive. “Alright.”

Guiscard turns to Yuuri and raises an eyebrow. “Are you staying for the bloodletting, Yuuri?”

Yuuri looks at Victor, who looks back at him, expression unreadable. He had said he’d never been ill before; possibly he’s never even had a physician treat him. The idea of bloodletting makes Yuuri queasy, and there’s a large chance it’s – well, freaking Victor out, too, for want of a better term.

“I’ll stay,” Yuuri says resolutely, and Victor smiles brightly. Yuuri gives him a weak one in response and hopes for all of their sakes that he doesn’t throw up.

 

* * *

 

They come back to check on Victor the next day, and again are greeted by the same servant as yesterday, who only says “he’s worse” as she lets them in. Guiscard hurries into Victor’s room, Yuuri right behind him (he had insisted on coming again, to Guiscard’s bemusement) as he pushes open the door.

‘He’s worse’ may have been a bit of an understatement, Yuuri thinks, heart stuttering at the sight of the silvery-haired man sprawled on his bed. Victor is sweating, _a lot_ , and his chest rises and falls rapidly as he takes heaving breaths. His blue eyes are open, but hazy; and perhaps most worryingly, he has swollen regions on his neck, which Yuuri recognises with horror to be buboes, the telltale signs of plague he remembers Takeshi laughing and pointing at in his book.

Guiscard seems at a loss, examining the buboes with a puzzled frown. Victor seems barely conscious of their presence, but as his eyes find Yuuri he raises his hand a little and his lips form the shape of Yuuri’s name, soundlessly. Suddenly shaking, Yuuri shuffles towards the bed and slips his fingers ever-so-slightly between Victor’s, wanting to give him something to hold onto. He remembers his mum doing the same whenever he had the flu back in Hasetsu, just anchoring him, so he would know someone was by his side.

“Yuuri,” Guiscard says abruptly. “Can I speak to you for a moment outside?”

Yuuri blinks. “Me? Why?” “Just for a moment. Come on.” He stalks out the door, and Yuuri apologetically pulls his hand away from Victor as he hurries to follow.

Shutting the door softly, Guiscard turns to face Yuuri and speaks quietly. “Yuuri, I’m afraid Victor’s going to die.”

Yuuri can practically feel the colour draining out of his face. “W-what?”

“One of my fellow physicians told me about those swellings, those boils – he said they showed up on his patient one morning and he died that night. We’re at a loss as to what it is. Nothing we’re trying seems to help these patients.” Guiscard rubs a hand wearily across his face. “All we can do is try and ease the passage.”

“You mean just sit there and chat to him as he’s dying?” Yuuri says incredulously. “Fluff his pillows and mop up his sweat and just _wait_?”

“There’s nothing more I can do, Yuuri. I don’t know anything about whatever illness Victor has. It's new to all of us.”

Yuuri finds himself desperately wishing he knew some cures for bubonic plague – he’s _sure_ that Victor has bubonic plague – but his book had only mentioned the ridiculous things that doctors had tried at the time, like sprinkling flowers around the room and letting leeches loose on the patient’s body. He knows for a fact that _those_ strategies never worked. If only he had some – antibiotics, or something – some 21st century medicine to give to the horrifically sick man with the beautiful blue eyes, who’s barely twenty-eight, who’s all alone in this big house with only his servants to keep him company.

“I’m staying with him,” Yuuri says curtly.

“Yuuri…”

“You said we can ‘ease the passage’, right? Let me help,” Yuuri interrupts stoutly.

Guiscard pauses, seeming to weigh up his options, before finally nodding. “Alright. Will you be good on your own? I have another patient to visit – hopefully it isn’t the same thing.”

“I’ll be fine,” Yuuri says, already preparing to re-enter the room. “Don’t worry about me.”

There’s something completely novel about the way he feels about Victor, he thinks, as he approaches the bed once more. Eleven years in Hasetsu and thirteen years in Marseilles, and he’s never felt this way about someone he’s just met. Victor makes him both incredibly nervous and incredibly at home; there’s an odd sense of familiarity about him that grounds Yuuri even as his head still spins at the overwhelming craziness of his existence here. Nothing about his life here should make sense, and yet Victor, somehow, does. He makes perfect sense. He did from the very first moment Yuuri laid eyes on him.

And now he’s going to be taken away.

Victor opens his eyes and looks at Yuuri, and a tiny, resigned smile touches his tremulous lips. Instantly, Yuuri crumbles.

“You heard us, didn't you?”

“Well, you, more specifically,” Victor says lightly, “since you were yelling a bit.”

He holds out his hand, hesitantly, and relief washes over his features when Yuuri takes it without a second thought.

“I’ve never died before,” Victor quips, and it’s obvious he's trying to make them both feel a little less frightened about what is to come. “First time for everything, right?”

Yuuri finds his grip tightening on Victor’s hand, as he finds himself, to his surprise, fighting back tears. He isn't sure why. He only met Victor yesterday, and yet… he doesn't want him to leave just yet. “You're too young.”

“Well, maybe I’ll get a second chance then.”

A second chance? To live? He so badly wishes, for Victor’s sake, that such things exist.

“In a different time and place, maybe, that’d be nice. I’d like to see more of the world.”

A second chance at living, in someplace completely new. The idea makes him pause, makes his pulse quicken inexplicably. Why are the words tugging at something deep inside him, like perfect chords being plucked on a guitar for the first time…?

Yuuri inhales sharply as realisation, sharp and clear and suddenly so obvious, rains over him. The missing piece he has been searching for all this time – finally found, like a curtain rising, a blossom unfurling. _A second chance._ That's what this is. That day on the ice rink, thirteen years ago, he must have died after all. And this, this time, this place, Marseilles hundreds of years ago, is his second chance. The thought both chokes him and releases him from the confusion he’s learnt to accept as an irremovable part of his life.

“A second chance,” he whispers, meeting Victor’s eyes. “I truly believe you’ll be given one.”

Victor’s expression goes hazy again, but his grip doesn't falter. The room seems to brighten momentarily as he presses his cheek into the pillows and gazes at Yuuri – eyes full of wonder – the same kind of wonder Yuuri supposes is in his own eyes whenever he thinks _how? How can I possibly feel so attahed to someone I barely know?_

“Stay close to me,” Victor says breathlessly, and Yuuri does.

 

* * *

 

Exactly a week later, Yuuri wakes up in the middle of the night, thrashing around feverishly in his bed. The buboes come soon enough, as expected, and the last thing Yuuri remembers is Guiscard sitting silently by his bed, head bowed, as Melisende cries softly in the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marseilles was one of the first places in Europe to be struck by what is now known as the Black Death; that's why Guiscard doesn't know how to handle Victor's condition at all (not that later medieval physicians did much better).
> 
> There'll be more Victor in the later chapters – sorry there wasn't more of him here, but there was a limit to how much proper conversation I could get out of him while he was fighting bubonic plague.
> 
> Please leave me comments, I'd love to hear what you think so far! Also, you can come find me on Tumblr at [teapotte](http://teapotte.tumblr.com) :)


	3. Florence | part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”
> 
> Yuuri takes the proffered hand and allows himself to be hauled up. “I’m fine, thank you––”
> 
> As he glances up, the words die on his lips. Blue eyes, achingly familiar blue eyes, are looking down at him worriedly – in a much younger face, yes, and framed by much longer hair – but it's the same silver Yuuri knows – and there’s no way he could mistake those eyes––
> 
> _You got your second chance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split up this section because it was getting super long and I didn't think I'd be able to finish quickly enough. There'll probably be two parts, three at most, set in Florence before I move on to Yuuri's next lifetime. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the YoI characters/scenarios.

_Florence, Italy. 1493._

 

He wakes with a gasp. For a moment, he’s completely disoriented, with no idea who he even is, before twenty-four years of memory come rushing back to him all at once. Flashes of both his life in Hasetsu and Marseilles assault his vision dizzyingly and he remembers, with a start, that he died. Twice, in fact. And it appears he’s now alive again. Alive and – if his frame is anything to go by – eleven.

But alive where, and perhaps more importantly, _when_ ? He can’t exactly ask a passerby _when_ it is without looking just a little bit insane, but perhaps he can get away with asking for a location.

He tugs at the dress of a passing lady, and tries to summon a cute voice. It’s difficult to do with the mentality of a twenty-four year old, but he channels his inner child and says, “Excuse me, where am I?” He grimaced at that odd sensation again – speaking a language he doesn’t know.

The woman flashes him an indulgent smile and says, loudly and slowly, “Playing a little game, are we, little mouse? Of course I’ll answer you, then. You’re in beautiful Florence – the loveliest city in all of Italy, if you ask me.”

Italy. Italy? How did he end up in Italy?

“Thank you very much,” he says to the lady, who gives him a little pat on the head as she walks away. Yuuri takes in his surroundings – the city is indeed beautiful, bustling and colourful, so different to plague-ridden Marseilles. He wanders around for a while, unsure of what to do. Last time he’d woken up in a bed, not on the street, and he’d immediately been taken under the wing of a wealthy physician. This time, he doesn’t have the luxury of circumstance; he’ll have to figure out what to do on his own.

His glasses are back, he realises, but they’re not the blue plastic frames he's used to. They sit heavily on the bridge of his nose, and the edges of the dark circular frames cut through the corners of his vision. With a sigh, he pushes them further up his nose; he misses the perfect vision he had in Marseilles, but he supposes that the glasses are a good sign. If they've now been invented, it means he’s a touch closer to his own time.

“Niccolo, careful! Not so quickly!”

The excited cry has Yuuri turning his head slightly as someone whirls past him. Not a moment later, someone else comes barreling into his back, sending the both of them to the ground in a heap.

Yuuri wrinkles his nose in pain and tries to shift the stranger’s weight off him. Instantly, the weight disappears, and a hand is being offered to him, accompanied by the same voice from earlier. This time, however, it is sharp with concern.

“I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

Yuuri takes the proffered hand and allows himself to be hauled up. “I’m fine, thank you––”

As he glances up, the words die on his lips. Blue eyes, achingly familiar blue eyes, are looking down at him worriedly – in a much younger face, yes, and framed by much longer hair – but it's the same silver Yuuri knows – and there’s no way he could mistake those eyes––

_You got your second chance._

“Victor,” he whispers, in shock.

Victor tilts his head to one side, seeming surprised. “Yes. How did you––”

“It’s me, Yuuri! I know I look different now because I’m eleven, but you – look at you! _You’re_ the one who really looks different – your hair, wow!” He laughs, exhilarated, unsure as to how this could have happened – how he could have found Victor again – but he’s so, so incredibly happy. “When did you wake up? How long have you been here?”

Victor is smiling, but it's artificial, overly polite. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

Yuuri stops, the grin slipping off his lips. He continues uncertainly. “What do you mean? It’s me, remember? I came with Guiscard to treat you when you had the plague. And I stayed with you when you – when you––”

But Victor is shaking his head. “No, that can't be me. I’ve never had any plague! You must be confusing me for someone else, that's it.” He lets go of Yuuri’s hand and pats him on the shoulder consolingly. “Sorry!”

Unable to reply, Yuuri simply stares up at him, heart drumming in his chest. How can Victor not remember him at all, when he remembers Victor so clearly?

“Victor! What's taking you so long?”

Victor looks past Yuuri. “Niccolo! You were going too fast, I bumped into this little boy.”

Little! Yuuri bristles with indignation.

The other boy, Niccolo, laughs raucously as he comes to stand beside Victor. “Look, he’s angry because you called him little.”

Victor nudges Niccolo and smiles apologetically down at Yuuri. “Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.” He looks around at their surroundings briefly, before turning back to Yuuri. “Where are your parents? I’ll take you back to them.”

“Victor…” whines Niccolo.

“Stop it, Niccolo. Now, what did you say your name was?”

“Yuuri.”

Niccolo rolls his eyes, clearly impatient. “What kind of name is that?” He eyes Yuuri’s clothing, which, this time, quite obviously does not denote as high a status as he had been able to take on in Marseilles. “Oh, I see. Peasant…”

“Niccolo.” Victor turns disapproving eyes on his friend. “I told you, stop it. He hasn’t done any wrong. If anything, it's my fault, for crashing into him. Just let me help him, and then we can do whatever you want, okay?”

Niccolo narrows his eyes at Yuuri, before sighing in resignation. “Fine. But if you don't hurry up, my dad will realise I’m missing and he’ll send out men to find me.”

“I’ll be quick,” Victor promises. “Yuuri, do you know where your parents are?”

Yuuri knows how to answer this one. “My parents aren't here.”

Victor frowns. “Are they at home?”

“No, I mean – I don’t have any. Parents, that is. They're, um, gone.”

Victor’s eyes widen, and he blushes. “Oh! I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“No, it's okay,” Yuuri says, “you didn't know.”

He’s rewarded with one of those warm smiles, before the look of concern returns to Victor’s face. “But – if you don't have any parents, then – where do you live?”

That’s a good question, and in fact Yuuri’s yet to figure it out. He supposes he could go around and ask for a place to stay in return for work, but for now…

He gestures around the street. “Well, here, I guess.”

Victor looks aghast, and even Niccolo’s expression shows mild pity. Yuuri regards them evenly, daring them to say something stupid. He may look like a child but he’s far from actually being one, and he knows the implications of Niccolo’s insult – _peasant._ It seems Victor’s been blessed with wealth and status in this life, as well. Will he even want to associate with Yuuri this time?

“Well, that won’t do,” Victor declares, decisively. “It's okay, you can come and live with me.”

Yuuri and Niccolo respond simultaneously. “What?!”

“Victor, you can't, your dad would never let you,” Niccolo says firmly. “Can you imagine how angry he’d be if you brought a beggar back with you? He’ll already be mad at you for sneaking out with me––!”

“I’m not a beggar,” Yuuri says sharply. “That implies I asked you to help me. I did no such thing. And I don’t particularly want to impose on your life, Victor. Your friend’s right, there’s no way I’d be accepted into your home.”

The two boys blink at him in silence, before Victor suddenly bursts out laughing. “You talk just like a grown-up, Yuuri! You must be clever. I’m sure papa will like you.”

Niccolo grabs Victor’s arm. “You're not really serious about this.”

“I am absolutely serious, Niccolo,” Victor says, trying for a solemn tone. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

Niccolo looks between Victor and Yuuri, chewing on his bottom lip. He seems to consider it for a moment, before his resolve suddenly hardens and he shakes his head. “No. No, I can’t, I’ll get in trouble. I have to go, Victor.” He takes one last fleeting look at Yuuri before turning on his heel and running off, sending clouds of dust flying in his wake.

Victor sighs, then smiles down at Yuuri. “Come on, let’s go. We don’t need his help.”

He brushes his hair out of his face – a habit that seems to have stayed with him from Marseilles – and starts walking. Yuuri follows him quietly, feeling a little better now that he has the chance to stay with Victor, but still burning with the same single question: _why can’t he remember me?_

It must be the same Victor. There’s no doubt about that. Perhaps Yuuri just needs to jog his memory?

“Victor,” he says carefully, “have you lived here all your life?”

“Yes, I was born in Florence,” Victor answers confidently, no trace of anything but certainty in his voice.

Yuuri droops, falling silent once more. He had been so thrilled when he had seen Victor – the prospect of someone he knew, someone who knew _him_ , in this foreign time and place had been more than he could wish for. To have that hope dangled in his face for no more than a few seconds before having it whisked away is… disheartening, to say the least. And yet, perhaps it’s all worth it as long as Victor gets his second chance at life? He seems happy, even with his rather dickish friend Niccolo, and Yuuri finds himself thinking that actually, that _is_ enough. It’s enough that Victor is happy this time.

It still seems odd for him to feel so strongly about someone he’s only really known for two days. Maybe now is his chance to change their status as mere acquaintances. If he really gets to live with Victor, he’ll see him everyday, get to learn more about him; he might then realise why he feels so connected to Victor, aside from the obvious fact that they now seem to be sharing their second life together.

“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” Victor remarks. “Is everything alright? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Yuuri stumbles at that, and Victor immediately thrusts his arms out to break his fall. “Careful! Don't want you falling again.” He straightens and brushes Yuuri off, before regarding him with his arms loosely folded. “Well? Am I? Making you uncomfortable, that is.”

Yuuri swallows, hard. He shakes his head as his mind flashes back against his will to a weakly man propped up in a bed, scarlet blankets heavy around his naked torso. “Not at all,” he says hoarsely.

It seems, luckily, to be the correct answer. Victor brightens visibly, and resumes walking. “Good!” he says cheerfully, as they turn a corner. “If you’re going to live with me, you have to get used to me. Sometimes people say I’m a little overwhelming, but mamma says I’ll grow out of that.”

“Hmm, perhaps, perhaps not,” Yuuri says, hiding a smile. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

Victor hums. “You really do talk like a grown-up, Yuuri. It's a little funny, but I think I like it.” His eyes shine. “I bet you’ll turn out to be very interesting! And you know how I said before that you must be clever? Well, my papa knows this man who’s possibly one of the smartest men I’ve _ever_ met, his name’s Leonardo – he said I can just call him Leonardo, although papa says I shouldn’t – and he has all these wonderful ideas about inventions and things––”

“Victor,” Yuuri interrupts, “hang on one moment. You’re not talking about… Leonardo da Vinci, are you?”

“Oh, you know him! Well, I suppose he is a bit famous, now that the Medicis have commissioned him a few times and all that…”

“A bit famous,” Yuuri repeats faintly. Does Victor really know Leonardo da Vinci? But if Leonardo da Vinci is still alive, that means – that means – Yuuri screws up his eyes, trying to remember those history lessons – he remembers much more about the Black Death than he does about da Vinci, but he’s sure his teacher has mentioned – _ah_ , yes, the _Renaissance_! That’s where he is, Renaissance Italy. Of course.

“I have to ask, Yuuri,” Victor is saying, already on a new topic of conversation. “I hope this isn’t too intrusive, but – was your family quite well off? That is, are you only living out here because your parents died?”

Yuuri looks at him curiously, unsure how to answer. “What makes you say that?” he says, buying for time.

“Well, I’m only asking because––” Victor reaches over and lightly taps the frame of Yuuri’s glasses. “––these, I know they aren’t too cheap. I was wondering how you had them, and I thought maybe…”

“I can’t remember how I got these,” Yuuri says honestly. “And I’m not sure about my family. I was only little when… you know.”

“Ah, I see.” Victor nods. He seems to think for a moment, before he adds quizzically, “So, if you were that little, how did you stay alive by yourself?”

Crap. “I’d rather not talk about this, Victor,” Yuuri says, hoping he sounds emotional rather than panicked, eyes trained on the ground.

“Of course.” A light hand comes to rest on Yuuri’s shoulder, pulling him a little closer to Victor. “I’m sorry.”

Yuuri leans subconsciously into Victor’s warmth as they walk together, in rhythm, weaving through the crowds of Florence – almost like a complex step sequence that only the two of them know. He wonders for a fleeting moment what Victor would look like ice-skating, but buries that thought quickly, knowing it’s a pointless daydream.

He misses skating, a lot more than he had anticipated he would. He hopes that when he wakes up next time, _if_ he wakes up next time, he’s in the position to skate again.

It’s the one thing that would remind him of home.

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” is what Victor’s father says in response to Victor’s suggestion.

“But why not, papa?” Victor demands.

Victor’s father looks wearily at them both and heaves a sigh. “Victor, we cannot take in every beggar who crosses your path––”

“He’s not a beggar,” Victor breaks in. “That implies he asked me for help. He didn't.” Victor flashes Yuuri a private grin. “I just wanted him to come stay with us.”

“Whether or not you want me to call him a beggar, the fact of the matter is he’s a penniless orphan with nothing to his name and no worthwhile relations whatsoever.” Impatience is beginning to enter his tone, and Yuuri stares at his feet, humiliated.

Nonetheless, Victor doesn’t give up. “Isn't that all the more reason to help him? He’s a perfectly nice boy, papa, and he’s so clever, he speaks just like a grown-up, listen––”

“Victor, enough,” his father says firmly. “Don’t make me lose my temper, please. I’m very busy right now, can’t you see? Go take this boy back to where you found him. It was very inconsiderate of you to give him such false hope. Besides that, I warned you not to sneak out with Niccolo again – you don’t really expect to be rewarded for your disobedience, do you?” He pauses, then addresses Yuuri. “And you, boy.” He waits for Yuuri to lift his gaze before continuing. “I _am_ sorry about your situation, but you understand, I can’t simply let you live here.”

Yuuri had expected as much. “I understand. Thank you anyway. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

Victor’s father watches him for a moment before holding out his hand towards Yuuri. On his palm sits a glinting gold coin. “Here,” he says, not unkindly.

Yuuri stares at the coin. He has no idea how much it’s worth, but he assumes it’s not insignificant.

“Take it, Yuuri,” Victor whispers. “Go on, it’s fine.”

For some reason, that makes his stomach turn. He shakes his head and steps away from the outstretched hand. “Thank you, but I can’t accept this. Victor, can we leave?”

He turns around before Victor can even answer, striding out the door of Victor’s father’s office. He can hear Victor’s footsteps behind him.

“Yuuri, wait!”

Yuuri only walks faster, strangely irritated by the decadence surrounding him as he walks through the house, frustrated that he can’t meet Victor in the middle this time around. They belong to two completely separate classes; it was childish of him to think that he could spend all his time with Victor, to think that Victor would even want to when he has other wealthy friends like Niccolo.

“Yuuri! Stop for a second!”

He does, then, so abruptly that Victor rams into his back yet again. Undaunted, Victor grabs him by the shoulders and swivels him around. “Why didn’t you take the florin?”

Yuuri bites his tongue. _I’m not some charity case. I’m supposed to be your friend again this time._

“You really ought to have taken it. I thought we could use it to go eat something yummy together.”

“Look, Victor, I – wait.” He stops himself as Victor’s words actually register in his brain. “...What?”

Victor smiles, seeming to sense a shift in the mood. “Papa doesn’t let me carry around money by myself, you know? He thinks I’m a frivolous spender.”

“You…” Yuuri finds that laughter is bubbling up in his throat as relief washes over him. “You mean you – you wanted to spend it together? That’s why you wanted me to take it?”

“Of course, why else would I––” Victor suddenly freezes and looks wildly at Yuuri with huge eyes. “Oh, no, _no_ , Yuuri, not like that! I never meant – you’re not – I know you aren’t.”

“You’re right. I’m not,” Yuuri says, and then gives Victor a smile, a real one that he hopes makes Victor feel as warm inside as Yuuri does when Victor smiles at him. “I suppose I should go now. Thank you for trying, Victor, but I didn’t think I’d really be allowed to stay. You didn’t give me false hope, don’t worry, and you’re not inconsiderate.” Yuuri starts to turn away again.

Victor frowns, grabbing onto Yuuri’s wrist hurriedly. “What are you going on about? You don't really think I’m going to listen to papa?”

“You – well, yes, in fact, I do,” Yuuri says, slightly taken aback.

“Hm. No, I don’t think so,” Victor says, contemplatively. “I rarely do. I’ll sneak you into my room, come on.”

Victor steers him through the house, his hand still wrapped around Yuuri’s wrist, muttering at him to “stop looking so guilty” and “act a bit more natural, can’t you, Yuuri?”

They successfully make it to Victor’s room without incident. Victor immediately throws himself theatrically on the bed as Yuuri wanders around, examining the intricate Renaissance adornments with interest. Victor waits silently for him to quell his curiosity; then, once Yuuri turns and approaches the bed, he pats the empty spot beside him as a gesture of invitation.

Yuuri awkwardly clambers onto the bed and sits cross-legged on the burgundy quilting. For a moment, he simply stares at the fabric, feeling out of place, before his gaze inadvertently wanders to Victor’s long ponytail. Illuminated by the late afternoon sun, it has taken on a sort of mesmerising, shimmery quality, and the bright platinum against deep ruby bedding makes for a lovely picture. Yuuri starts when Victor tosses his hair and flashes him a smile. “I see something’s caught your interest.”

Yuuri feels his cheeks heat and he looks away hastily. “S-sorry, I’m just… well, it’s quite pretty.”

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Victor laughs. “Now that I’m fifteen I don’t get told nice things like that as much. I think everyone expects me to act a little more grown-up and sophisticated, and be interested in worldly ideas, you know. Not the state of my hair.”

“You will keep it long, won’t you?”

Victor shrugs. “I don't know. Probably not _this_ long, maybe somewhere around…” He brings up two fingers to just below his shoulders. “...here?”

Yuuri hums, trying to picture it. Victor, still lying down, turns his head to face Yuuri properly, cheek resting against the bed. “Yuuri, before, how did you know my name?”

How did he, indeed? Yuuri can’t exactly tell Victor the _truth_ – but he can’t think of a suitable lie on the spot, either.

“I’m only asking because – well, I’m certain I’ve never met anyone named Yuuri, and I haven’t ever seen you before in my life, but…” Victor struggles to find the words. “...I don’t know, it’s like – it’s like I know you. Not like I’ve _met_ you, exactly, but just like I… just like I _know_ you. Somehow.”

And Yuuri will take that, really. If Victor even feels a twinge of what he seemed to feel in Marseilles, they can definitely work from there. “Me too,” Yuuri says firmly. “I feel like I know you too.”

Victor’s expression can’t be described as anything other than radiant. “I’m so glad I bumped into you. I think you and I’ll become really good friends. I just have a _feeling_!”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri has to leave not long after that, because Victor gets called to supper and he warns Yuuri that the servants pop in and out of his room during that time to dust and clean. “But,” he says, eyes glittering, “there’s nothing stopping you from coming back. I’ll pull you in through the window, can you stay outside for a bit? Don’t leave the gardens, or you won’t be able to get past the guards on your way back. Will you be alright all by yourself?”

“It’s not for long, Victor, don’t worry.”

“Still! It’ll be getting cold out there…”

Victor eventually settles on wrapping Yuuri up in some very warm (but very extravagant) outerwear before helping him climb carefully out from the window. He gives Yuuri a quick wave, and then vanishes, footsteps receding gradually until Yuuri is left in the relative silence of the night. With a sigh, Yuuri seats himself amongst the bushes, listening to the hum and trill of the garden’s little creatures. It’s nice to have a little peace after what has been an indisputably overwhelming day.

He can't help but wonder how many more times this is going to happen. Even more confusingly, he’s not sure whether or not he _wants_ it to happen again. It’s nice right now to know he can experience everything he loves about life again, but he can’t help but think it could eventually get old. Besides that, what about everyone he’s going to have to leave behind, constantly? He’s lucky to have Victor in this lifetime with him somehow, but people like Guiscard and Melisende – people he gets close to – he’ll have to get used to leaving behind. What he’s feeling, what he’ll keep on feeling, is something like survivor’s guilt.

As he muses, the rose bush in front of him catches his eye. “ _Blue_ roses!” he whispers in fascination, reaching for one carefully, so as not to cut himself on the thorns. Immediately, he imagines tucking one into Victor’s wonderful long hair – no, even better, a crown atop his head – and goes to pick several more. They’re not _his_ flowers, he knows that, but the temptation is much too strong to ignore. And surely he won’t be the only one who’ll appreciate the finished result?

He’s too busy working on his crown to notice when Victor returns, until he hears his name being hissed in a way that suggests he’s been called several times already. He looks up to see Victor looking down at him, hands on hips, impatient. “Yuuri, finally! I’m back, come on in.”

He extends a hand. Yuuri grips it and lets himself be hauled back through the window and into room, where they tumble into a heap on the floor, giggling.

“I brought you some food, Yuuri! I thought you might be hungry…”

They sit together on the floor and chat as Yuuri eats, both of them strangely exhilarated by the illicit atmosphere of this whole operation, sharing silly little stories in the patch of moonlight let in by the window. Yuuri doesn’t have much to tell, but Victor more than makes up for it, with plenty of adventures with Niccolo to recount (most of them end with them being caught by one of their fathers). When Yuuri is finished eating he leans to the side slightly as he pushes away his plates, and it is then that Victor spots the ring of brilliant blue roses behind Yuuri’s back and quirks an eyebrow.

“Well, clearly you’ve been busy while I was gone! I hope those aren’t from my papa’s rose bushes?”

His tone is playful, but Yuuri still flushes with shame. “I’m really sorry, I had nothing else to do and I couldn’t resist, and I know you’re probably annoyed, but––” Determinedly avoiding eye contact, he places the crown on Victor’s head with shaking fingers and sits back. “––it’s for you.”

Yuuri receives only silence in response, and he grimaces, not daring to look at Victor’s expression. Maybe it was a bit too much? He’d thought Victor might appreciate the gesture, but to be fair, they’ve technically only met today – at least as far as Victor knows…

He jumps when Victor places a cool hand on top of his own. “Yuuri. I love it, it’s so _very_ pretty.”

Yuuri chances a brief glance at Victor’s face and is relieved to see a soft smile there. “And you made this? You must have talented hands! You didn't get cut anywhere, did you?”

He brings Yuuri’s hands closer to his face, examining them, and Yuuri shakes his head quickly. “N-no, I’m fine. Victor, you aren’t––”

“Of course I’m not mad,” Victor says easily. “I was only teasing before. And how could I be mad when you’ve given me something so beautiful?” He adjusts the crown and gives Yuuri a little wink.

As Yuuri had predicted, the roses look absolutely gorgeous on Victor. He looks almost angelic with the royal blue vivid in his hair and his eyelashes catching the moonlight whenever he blinks. Without even realising it, Yuuri blurts out, “You’re the one who makes it look more beautiful” – and then instantly buries his face in his hands in utter embarrassment, wanting to hit himself.

To his surprise, Victor simply laughs delightedly and envelopes him in a tight hug. “Ah, you’re too _adorable_ , Yuuri! But if you keep saying things like that, it’ll go to my head, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll throw in an insult every now and then to even it out,” Yuuri suggests, voice muffled by Victor’s shoulder.

That draws yet another laugh out of the older boy. “Maybe you should.” He gives Yuuri a pat on the back and then pulls away, leaving Yuuri feeling much colder as the night breeze wafts in through the window. Victor gets to his feet and pulls Yuuri up with him. “Come on, let’s go to bed, I’m tired!”

Under the thick quilting, it’s considerably warmer. They whisper their goodnights and lie quietly together in the darkness. At first, Victor stays a few inches away from Yuuri, clearly wanting to respect his personal space; but as he drifts off into sleep he becomes – what can he call it? – a sloth, perhaps, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s middle and clinging to him as though for dear life. Yuuri can’t help but smile at how Victor is so chronically touchy and affectionate even in his sleep. He closes his eyes, feeling safe, and eventually is lulled to sleep by the sounds of night outside and the steady rhythm of Victor’s soft breathing, right beside him.

 

* * *

 

He’s jolted awake by the sound of knocking at the door, and he squints against the blindingly bright sunlight as he props himself up slightly, shaking Victor awake. “Victor. Victor! There’s someone at the door!”

Victor cracks open one eye and looks at him sleepily, arms still loosely circling Yuuri’s waist. “Yuuri…?”

“There’s someone knocking at the door, Victor!”

It seems to take a moment to sink into Victor’s still-fuzzy brain, but when it does, he practically leaps out of bed in panic. “One moment, Cicilia!” he calls out, before turning and pushing Yuuri unceremoniously towards the window. “Out, out! I’ll fetch you soon. Stay out of sight!”

Yuuri tumbles out and lands with a flop on the shrubbery below. Victor’s head pokes out momentarily to check that he’s landed safely and then disappears almost straight away as the knocking becomes more insistent. Yuuri hears Victor answer the door and leave to go breakfast with his father, leaving him, once again, sitting amongst the rose bushes by himself.

Eventually Victor comes to find him and helps him to his feet, saying, “Sorry about earlier, Yuuri, I completely forgot to warn you about that last night.”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri says. “Did you have to sneak out again?”

Victor shakes his head. “No, I’m allowed to go out today. I don't have any lessons until the afternoon, so as long as I’m back by then…”

“Are you meeting Niccolo?”

“I am,” Victor affirms cheerily, as they start walking out of the gardens in a path strategically chosen to avoid bumping into anyone. “You’re coming, right?”

Yuuri kicks a little at the ground and says slowly, “I don't think he likes me that much.”

“Don't be silly, of course he likes you, _I_ like you,” Victor says, waving away his concerns nonchalantly. “Niccolo always likes the things I like. He was just upset last time because I said I was going to take you to meet papa. He’s a bit dramatic, that’s all!”

“ _He’s_ dramatic?” Yuuri says, before he can stop himself, and Victor laughs.

“Alright, maybe I am too. I suppose that’s why he and I are such good friends.”

At that, Yuuri feels an odd twinge in his gut, something different to the comfortable warmth he normally feels around Victor. It’s more – sour. It makes him want to kick something, but it isn’t quite anger, as strange as that sounds. Well, then. Just another new feeling, it seems, sparked by Victor’s enigmatic presence.

“I’ll come,” he says impulsively. He doesn’t like the idea of being left by himself while Victor and Niccolo go dilly-dallying about the city. Niccolo will just have to get used to Yuuri being around; he won’t be leaving anytime soon, that’s for sure. He cracks a smile at the put-out expression he imagines seeing on Niccolo’s face very soon. “So, where are we going?”

Not very far, it turns out. They meet Niccolo in the middle of the bustling markets, holding a few apples. He hands one to Victor, and then (grudgingly, and only after being pointedly asked go by Victor) one to Yuuri as well. Victor and Niccolo seem content to simply wander around and chat amiably, so Yuuri follows quietly, feeling increasingly like a shadow. It’s not that Victor deliberately excludes him, exactly; it’s more just that – he and Niccolo have things to talk about that belong between just the two of them. Yuuri could participate, but it’d only be with questions.

Yuuri is wondering if perhaps he should leave when Victor suddenly perks up, looking at them both with shining eyes. “Hear that? Music! Let’s go listen!”

Without even awaiting an answer, he starts sprinting towards the source of the music. Glancing at one another in resignation, Yuuri and Niccolo follow half-heartedly; half-heartedly, that is, until Yuuri starts to faintly hear the music too, and he finds himself quickening his pace in spite of himself. The three of them eventually reach the source of the sound; a group of street musicians, performing to the marketplace crowd milling around them. The music is – well, nothing like the music he listened to in Hasetsu, that’s for sure. He can hear recognisable sounds like a tambourine, and – is that a triangle? But there are instruments being played that he can’t quite name: some sort of reedy woodwind; a set of lilting strings; something that sounds vaguely like a trumpet. It’s upbeat and cheerful, and Yuuri sneaks a glance at Victor’s face to gauge his reaction. At first, he seems mesmerised by the musicians themselves, but before long he turns his blue eyes on Niccolo.

“As usual, then, Niccolo?” he says expectantly, grinning.

Niccolo rolls his eyes. “I’m not dancing with you again, Victor.”

Victor pouts a little. “Come on, it’s tradition! And it’s fun after a bit, admit it.”

Niccolo holds firm for approximately three seconds before cracking. “Oh, fine,” he says with a sigh, holding out his hand. Victor takes it excitedly and drags Niccolo along with him, spinning and bouncing amongst the crowd as music swirls around them. Yuuri watches with a reluctant smile as Niccolo’s grumbling turns gradually into whooping laughter, and wonders what it’s like to be twirled around by Victor like that.

It seems he doesn’t have to wait long for his answer. As his mind begins to wander Victor suddenly reappears in front of him, flushed and breathless. Niccolo seems to have abandoned him to find more food for them all, and Victor now holds out his hand to Yuuri, eyes bright. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you. Won’t you dance with me, Yuuri?”

Yuuri takes his hand without a second thought and lets himself be pulled along, dancing in time to the beat of the music, to the thrum of the crowd, to the sound of Victor’s laughter. He dances with the part of him that pines for skating; the part of him that has always wanted to express more than what mere words are capable of saying…

“What aren’t you good at, Yuuri?” Victor is saying, exuberantly. “I didn’t think you’d be such an amazing dancer! It’s like – it’s like… how can I explain this? It’s like you're the music? No – it’s like you’re _creating_ the music, but with your body. With the way you move. I can’t hear it, no one can. But...” Victor beams at him. “...you can _feel_ it, can't you?”

Everything whirls around them and Yuuri beams back, glowing with the compliment. His fingers are intertwined tightly with Victor’s as they spin, and spin, and spin until their dizziness gets the better of them and they fall to the floor in a heap, yelping and giggling. This is how Niccolo finds them not two minutes later, and he simply raises his eyebrows at them, handing them some sort of warm bread as he joins them on the floor.

He feels more like a child today, Yuuri realises. He feels more… eleven. Yesterday, he felt precisely like a twenty-four year old in the _body_ of a child, but – today, maybe even since last night, he’s been feeling closer to eleven once again. Like… like he has the knowledge and memories, but not quite all the _mentality_ , of his twenty-four year old self. Perhaps that’s just how all this works. Or perhaps Victor simply makes him feel new and naïve and hopeful.

He figures that it doesn’t really matter which one it is. Either way, he’s helpless to the effect it has on him; in other words, he couldn’t change a thing it if he wanted to.

(But then again, of course, why would he want to change a thing at all?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did blue roses exist in the 14th century? Well, yes, dyed ones did. Were there blue rose bushes in Renaissance Florentine gardens? I mean, probably not, but who knows, right? Anything for the plot :') And yes, Victor's dialogue near the end is also a reference to what his dialogue in the show!
> 
> Please let me know in the comments what you think, it really helps motivate me! Or you can pop in and visit me on Tumblr at [teapotte](http://teapotte.tumblr.com) :)


	4. Florence | part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Me neither,” Yuuri blurts out.
> 
> Victor pauses and frowns a little. “What?”
> 
> Yuuri takes a slow, deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I – I don't think I’m ready yet, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In advance, sorry about this chapter!! I found it incredibly difficult to write and I probably rewrote it like three times before I was somewhat happy with it. I've already got a plot arc planned out, so assume that this is all going somewhere eventually :')
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the YoI characters or scenarios.

They use up their days like this month after month, and it’s so incredibly easy, so perfect the way Yuuri fits into Victor’s life like he’s always been a part of it. Niccolo warms to him, or at least enough so the three of them can spend their time together without any awkwardness. Yuuri soon realises that he and Victor are _not_ in fact exceptionally good at sneaking around, but that Victor’s father is simply turning a blind eye, apparently happy to let Yuuri stick around as long as he can pretend he doesn’t know about it. He wants to say thank you – but of course that would break the little system of pretenses they have going.

Mostly it’s the three of them, but Victor also divides his time up to accommodate both Yuuri and Niccolo individually. There’ll be days when Yuuri and Victor part ways after waking up; Yuuri goes to wander around the city by himself, while Victor goes to find Niccolo. He doesn’t resent it anymore, really – Victor and Niccolo have been friends for much longer, and he’s sure they have things they like to do without him hanging around. Yuuri can tell Niccolo’s very fond of Victor; he does pretty much whatever Victor asks him to, and, as Yuuri had been told, he seems to like everything Victor likes. So if they want some time to themselves, Yuuri thinks that’s more than reasonable. Besides, it’s only fair considering the amount of time Victor also spends alone with Yuuri. Because he does – spend lots and lots of time focussed completely on Yuuri, that is.

Those moments, _those_ moments, are what Yuuri lives for. Those mornings when he cracks open an eye to see a fond smile and Victor says, “Today I’m all yours, Yuuri” and both of them are _equally_ excited. They quickly discover that they don’t have to be doing much to have fun together – even just strolling around, talking, making up stories about the people they pass, is enough to make the day flash by in an instant. And gradually, Yuuri learns Victor, inch by inch. He knows about Victor’s little boot-shaped birthmark right below his hipbone; he knows that when Victor can’t sleep, he turns his head to window and counts the stars in a whisper; he knows that Victor interlocks his fingers and taps his thumbs together habitually when he’s worried or nervous.

Because he’s figured out these tells, it becomes quite easy for Yuuri to tell when Victor’s feeling off. And just a few days before Victor’s sixteenth birthday, after an afternoon spent with Niccolo, Victor comes back home – late and through the window – with the oddest look on his face. Yuuri is waiting for him, seated cross-legged on the bed, and Victor approaches him silently before dropping down on the edge of the bed.

Immediately, Yuuri’s hands go to Victor’s hair. He’s discovered that simply carding his fingers through it, maybe loosely braiding it, does wonders when the older boy is in a mood. Pulling Victor's ponytail undone gently, Yuuri asks, “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Victor tenses visibly at the question. “I––” His voice cracks, and he tries again. “Well, it’s… it’s Niccolo.”

Despite still not being exactly best buddies with Niccolo, Yuuri frowns in concern. “Is he alright? Did he injure himself while you were out today?”

Victor shakes his head. “No, it’s – nothing like that. He’s… fine.” The way he’s talking is abnormal: stumbling and lopsided, as though the words aren’t quite forming correctly in his mind.

He stops speaking, and Yuuri prompts him gently, “But…?”

Victor takes a moment to continue. He seems slightly lost, eyes wide but a little clouded, like he’s thinking about too many things at once. He’s fiddling with his collar, gaze far away and unreadable. “But…” he says finally. “But he… we were just walking and then he…”

Again, his voice drops off, but his fingers move from his collar to brush against his lips unconsciously in a way that makes Yuuri freeze. His hands still their movements in Victor’s hair, making the older boy turn his head inquisitively.

“Yuuri? Why did you stop?”

“You were just walking and then he did what, Victor?” he says, a little more harshly than he had intended.

Victor blinks and lowers his gaze. “You can’t tell anyone, Yuuri.”

“Tell anyone _what_?”

“Niccolo, he…” Victor’s doing the anxious hand thing, with the thumbs. A few heavy seconds pass between them woodenly, and then: “...He kissed me.”

Perfect silence follows this confession. Yuuri’s hands drop out of Victor’s hair as he struggles to comprehend, shock coursing through his veins. Victor’s shoulders are hunched and he doesn’t meet Yuuri’s gaze.

At long last, Yuuri speaks, mouth dry. “Was it – was it a proper one?”

Shaking his head distractedly, Victor swivels around. “It was just a––” He leans forward slightly and for a moment looks like he’s going to demonstrate on Yuuri. Yuuri reels back in panic, and Victor shakes his head, as though chiding himself. He blinks once and his dazed eyes clear a little. “Sorry, I don't know what went through my head just then,” he says, and then lightly pecks the back of his own hand. “It was like that. Nothing else.”

Yuuri swallows as he tears his gaze away from the wetness glistening on Victor’s skin where his lips made contact. _Niccolo_. He’d always thought Niccolo considered Victor a best friend, quietly idolised him perhaps, but never this! Or perhaps it wasn’t Niccolo who had initiated it? His breath stutters. “Did you… ask him to––?”

“No!” Victor interrupts, in a rush. “Yuuri, you have to understand, I pushed him away. Of course he didn’t do anything bad to me, I think he was just testing the waters, but I didn’t like it. I told him not to do it again and he was perfectly nice about it after, but I can’t help feeling like this is going to change some things and I’m terribly worried that––”

“The reason why you didn’t like it, was that because he’s a boy?”

Looking a bit like a deer in headlights, Victor turns huge, vulnerable blue eyes on him. He says slowly, “It’s illegal, Yuuri, you know that. Two boys doing… things like that, it’s illegal.”

“So is that why you pushed him away? Because he’s a boy?” Yuuri presses.

He understands that this is a huge ask of Victor. Victor might even lie. Yuuri will know if he does, of course, but that’s fine, really. Maybe it’s not his place to be told something like this just yet.

“...No,” Victor says softly, surprising, it seems, the both of them. “It wasn’t because he’s a boy.”

“Then… why?”

Victor nibbles on his bottom lip and seems to seriously consider this. He finally says, “I think it’s just because I don't see him that way. He’s my friend, almost a brother, and it was weird to kiss him. I always felt like we had this unspoken agreement to always be friends, exactly as we were and nothing changing, for the rest of our lives, and…” His voice becomes a little shaky. “It’s just a bit overwhelming to think I was wrong. He was supposed to be a constant in my life.”

Yuuri considers this, then nods slowly. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“But it wasn’t because he’s a boy, Yuuri,” Victor says again, holding his gaze with surprising steadiness. “Please don’t mistake it as that.”

Inexplicably, Yuuri’s heart begins racing. “I – I won’t.”

“Good.” A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Victor’s lip, and Yuuri relaxes at the sight of it, relieved that Victor is apparently feeling somewhat better.

Yuuri reaches over Victor’s shoulder and brings forward his hair to continue stroking it, facing him this time, their knees touching. Victor’s eyes follow the movement of Yuuri’s hands. Suddenly, he says, “You know, I think I’d like to do something like that in the future, only with someone who’s special to me in that way. Don’t you agree?”

Yuuri struggles to keep a straight face and replies evenly, “Yes, that does sound nice.”

Victor hums and places a hand absentmindedly on Yuuri’s knee as though anchoring himself. “I guess I’m just not ready yet.” He laughs lightly, and tilts his head forward to allow Yuuri easier access to his hair. Yuuri, however, had also thought the same thing and shuffled closer at the same moment as well. In the space of perhaps a second they have ended up with their faces mere centimetres apart.

Both of them startled, they stay absolutely still, neither of them breathing. Outside the window there are birds crooning softly. Yuuri can feel warmth radiating from Victor’s hand on his knee, Victor’s heart close to his, Victor’s _lips_ just inches away, and it’s all so much, _too_ much.

Victor inhales sharply. “Yuuri––”

“Me neither,” Yuuri blurts out.

Victor pauses and frowns a little. “What?”

Yuuri takes a slow, deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I – I don't think I’m ready yet, either.”

Victor looks momentarily bemused, but then his expression clears. “I see. So, both of us, then?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, before adding cautiously, “but I’d… also like to do nice things like that someday. With someone who’s special to me. Like you said.”

“Like I said,” Victor repeats with a smile, gentle and affectionate, full of sincerity. “So, someday?”

“Someday,” Yuuri confirms, feeling much more at ease, and Victor draws apart from him only to flop down on the bed on his back.

“Gosh, I’m tired.” He yawns and stretches his hands above his head, twisting a little, like a cat. “Let’s stop talking about all this and go to sleep, Yuuri.”

Yuuri settles into his spot to Victor’s left, burying his head deep into his pillow. “Are we meeting up with Niccolo tomorrow?” he asks, voice muffled.

He can sense Victor’s hesitation. “No,” he says after a moment, and then, a little quieter, to himself perhaps: “Not just yet.”

Yuuri doesn't respond, pretending to have fallen asleep. Victor is still beside him – it would be easy to think he had dropped off – but Yuuri can hear rustling as Victor inches closer to the side of the bed facing the window, and soon enough, the telltale whispers follow.

“One – two – three…”

Yuuri hopes the sky is clear tonight, undisturbed and unclouded, so the stars can twinkle brightly as Victor counts them one by one.

 

* * *

 

After that day, something changes between the three of them. Victor still spends plenty of time with Niccolo, and from what Yuuri can tell, tries to act like nothing is different. And yet something _is_ different, in the way Victor shies away from physical contact with Niccolo, the way he doesn’t ask Niccolo to dance in the marketplace anymore, the way he’s too careful with his words, like he doesn’t want to send the wrong signals. Yuuri notices the crestfallen expression on Niccolo’s face as he glances at his best friend, and feels a little sorry for him. It’s like Victor’s suddenly reining back his open affection around the one person who’d previously been offered it the most.

Contrarily, Victor becomes increasingly cuddly with Yuuri – always finding ways to touch him, to get close to him. It’s nothing that exactly signifies anything beyond friendship, but his hand always seems to be grazing Yuuri’s nowadays, and when they’re chatting in bed he rests his head in Yuuri’s lap and talks up at him. As for the reason behind this polarity in behaviour? Yuuri has to admit he’s at a loss. He can understand why things might be stilted with Niccolo, but how that correlates with double the affection towards Yuuri, he has absolutely no idea.

Victor turns seventeen, then eighteen, then nineteen and ever on, and becomes busier with his lessons; his father seems determined to convince Victor to follow his footsteps into politics. He also continually reminds Victor that he must get married, to a nice sensible girl of sensible strategic value, but Victor avoids these suggestions so pointedly that his father has turned his focus back to taking up his day with as many lessons as possible. No matter how crammed his schedule becomes, however, Victor always makes time for Yuuri. They still sneak out once in a while, hearts still youthful as their bodies grow up, and at the end of the day still fall asleep together. It’s a comfortable, easy sort of friendship that Yuuri is absolutely thrilled with.

And yet, despite this completely _fine_ friendship, there are still moments when there seems to be a level of something else behind it – moment when Yuuri is sure they’re going to – to _kiss_ . They never do, of course; somehow, one of them always pulls back at the last moment, flustered and pink-cheeked, not wanting to do anything the other isn’t ready for; but they also seem to be unable to _stop_ getting themselves into those moments, when Yuuri’s pulse starts quickening as his mind blurs into a rush of _are we going to––? Is he going to––?_

One of these moments happens in the middle of summer, as they run down a wonderfully green hill and collapse at the bottom cackling with laughter, falling back onto the yellow flowers as wispy clouds pass over them and dapple their skin. Breathless and full of adrenaline, they turn to look at one another at the same time and somehow that sends them exploding into laughter again, their hands meeting between them, fingers buried in soft grass. Yuuri licks his lips to wet them and is startled when Victor’s gaze follows the movement of his tongue; a sudden spike of daring slithers through him, and before he realises it he is nudging his nose into Victor’s shyly. But the feeling of Victor’s gentle breath against his mouth suddenly knocks into him a sharp sense of what he’s about to do, and he pulls back as though slapped, staring resolutely up at the sky with hot cheeks. He thinks he hears Victor sigh a little, but decides not to read too much into it.

Another time, it’s shortly after Victor’s turned twenty-three and his father makes him cut his hair to his shoulders. Victor takes it without batting an eyelash, but his eyes glisten as they walk into his room that night, and all it takes is Yuuri saying quietly, “Victor?” to get him breaking down into tears. He drops down onto the bed, Yuuri sinking down beside him and wrapping an arm around the trembling shoulders without a word.

“I’m being silly, I know,” Victor sobs, “it’s just hair. It’s just hair. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“You’re crying because it was beautiful and you grew it out for a long time.” _And it meant you were still free to be a child._ “But Victor, your hair’s still beautiful, you know.”

Victor looks at him disbelievingly, and Yuuri bites his lip contemplatively for a moment, before jumping off the bed and out the window.

Immediately, Victor is at the window, his upper half practically hanging out off the ledge. “Yuuri, _what_ ––”

“Give me a moment,” Yuuri calls up at him, reaching out in front of him a little blindly in the dark, as Victor looks down at him apprehensively.

He picks an armful of blue roses and climbs back up in through the window, struggling slightly. As Victor watches on in wonderment, he lays down all the roses on the bed, sits down in a comfortable position, and begins weaving them into a circlet. There’s complete silence as he works – because he’s rushing a little, he cuts a few of his fingers – and every time a thorn brushes his skin Victor gives a sharp intake of breath, but knows better than to try to stop him. Eventually he finishes and beckons Victor closer; Victor tilts his head downwards, hair shrouding his tear-streaked face, and Yuuri crowns him with the roses, tucking Victor’s hair fondly behind his right ear. When he draws his hands away Victor looks up at him through his lashes and says tremulously, “Yuuri––”, and he is _devastatingly_ beautiful. He inches closer, gaze fluttering down to land hesitantly on Yuuri’s mouth, not seeming to notice he’s even doing it until Yuuri gently pushes him away with a hand at his shoulder. He blinks at the hand, and then looks back at Yuuri.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, don't be,” Yuuri replies softly. “I just – don’t really know what’s going through your head right now. I mean, you were crying about ten minutes ago.”

Victor reaches up and touches the roses on his head. “I’m fine now.” A grin ghosts at his lips. “I shouldn't say this, papa would be incredibly annoyed, but I have to admit your roses make me feel pretty again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Victor,” Yuuri says, in a tone so light it completely contradicts the utter seriousness of his words. “You never stopped being pretty.”

Victor’s hand lowers and he stares at Yuuri awhile. Finally he says faintly, “You are absolutely ruining me, you know that?”

Yuuri laughs. “Come on. It’s late, let’s go to sleep.”

They do, and they don't talk about it the next day, or ever, really – but this keeps on happening, and soon it becomes too overwhelming to ignore, so Yuuri (finally exasperated at the way they both keep dancing around the matter) decides to do something about it. The day before Victor turns twenty-eight, his father allows him a rare day of complete freedom that he decides to spend with Yuuri; the day of his actual birthday has been reserved for some sort of lunch with Victor’s future associates and connections. But for the entirety of the day _before_ his birthday, Victor is absolutely free to do as he likes.

Yuuri wakes up that morning before the sun has completely risen. The room is awash with a sort of dove-grey half light, and Yuuri just stays lying in bed with his eyes open, thinking.

 _I’m going to just – do it._ He’ll be the one who finally gathers his resolve and claims the kiss they’ve dangled between themselves for a good ten years.

 _Today, while we’re out, maybe; or is it better to do it when we get back here?_ Victor snuffles in his sleep and Yuuri’s heart thuds. _Oh, geez, can I_ actually _do this?_

Perhaps Victor senses that Yuuri is no longer asleep, because he blinks blearily a few times in Yuuri’s general direction and calls softly, “Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you – umm…” In his sleep-induced gaze Victor’s eyebrows dip as he searches for the word. When he finds it, he finishes with solemnity, “...asleep?”

“I’m just doing some thinking,” Yuuri says fondly. “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

Victor almost looks like he doesn’t want to leave it at that, but his weariness gets the better of him and he nods sleepily, eyes closing again. “...mmkay. Don’t… think too hard… ’s too early…” His mouth slackens as he falls back asleep, and Yuuri stifles a laugh.

Who is he kidding? Of _course_ he can do this, this beautiful man sleeping beside him is just as much of a goof as he is. There is nothing to be afraid of.

...Is there?

Yuuri hesitates as he thinks of Niccolo, who of course remains friends with Victor but has lost the warmth of all his little touches. What if Yuuri, like Niccolo, is simply reading the signs wrong? What if Victor _doesn’t_ want to do anything that could be classified as beyond strictly friendly, and Yuuri’s just been leaping to conclusions?

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. No, he’s got to try this. He’ll make his intentions clear and if Victor responds positively, he’ll – he’ll just _swoop_ right in like a gentleman and kiss him. That’s it. Easy.

Yes, easy, he tells himself, but somehow can’t fall back asleep and simply sits there on the bed beside Victor until the sun is up and the room is bright. At this point he waits patiently until Victor awakes. Eventually Victor rises, his face breaking into a bright smile as he registers what day it is, and he starts pulling Yuuri out of bed and towards the door before they have even changed. Yuuri hastily tugs him away from the doorway, convincing him to stop for a moment and think about what he is wearing.

“And besides, window for me, remember?” he reminds Victor with a soft smile, as they change. “I'll meet you by the rose bushes.”

An hour later they are buried within the thick marketplace crowd, navigating through the Florentine alleys, always chasing the sound of far-off music. They do their customary dance (which still consists more of twirling around than any form of proper movement) hand-in-hand and then stop to have something to eat – since he turned eighteen or so Victor has been allowed to carry around his father’s florins despite not having improved his habit of frivolous spending at all, simply on the grounds of being ‘old enough’ (or so he says that was the argument he used to convince his father). They sit together in the shade and look out at the hustle and bustle of midday.

Yuuri, lost in thought, sighs a little wistfully. “I really do love it here.”

A beat passes. He hears Victor say nonchalantly, “A lot more?”

Well, medieval Marseilles has not been half as colourful, and he’d only been able to spend a few days with Victor.. “Oh, yes, a lot more,” he says without thinking, and immediately panics, shooting an anxious glance at Victor.

Victor grins triumphantly. “I knew it! You lived somewhere else before Florence. You always talk like you did, but you _tell_ me you were born here and your parents just died and that’s why you don't have anywhere to live. But I caught you out, didn't I? Admit it, you weren’t born here!” He props his chin on one hand and looks at Yuuri in fascination. “Did you run away or something?”

“N-no!”

“Then what was it?”

Yuuri chews on his bottom lip, eyes flitting from Victor’s expectant expression down to his own hands fidgeting on the tabletop. “Well…”

Victor’s blue eye glitter. “ _Yes_?”

“...fine, I wasn’t born in Florence.”

Victor looks far too pleased.

“Oh, wipe that look off your face.”

“How can I?” Victor crows, flicking at his hair with a gleeful grin. “I figured it out, didn’t I? Oh, come on, Yuuri,” he says, when Yuuri only gives him a disapproving look, “you figure out far too much about me, _far_ too easily. Don't you think this is only fair?”

“Quite frankly I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri says delicately. “But anyway, I couldn’t tell you more if I wanted to. I can’t remember anything about my childhood. I don’t even know how I got here. I just woke up one day and – here I was.” This much is true. “Oh, actually, the day you found me was the day I arrived.”

Victor’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really. You were the first person I properly met.”

For some reason, this seems to absolutely delight Victor. “I’m glad it was me.”

Yuuri tilts his head to one side in mild puzzlement and asks, “Why’s that?”

“Well,” Victor says matter-of-factly, “if someone else had found you they might have stolen you away from me.”

This offhand remark steals Yuuri’s breath momentarily, but he quickly composes himself and says teasingly, “Maybe they would’ve made me live with them. A ridiculous notion, really, for someone I’d just met.”

“Perhaps they’d ask you to make them crowns of flowers all the time,” Victor returns, cheekily. “Honestly, what a demand.”

“As long as they had lovely silver hair and lots of blue rose bushes, I’d be happy to make them as many crowns as they wanted.” Yuuri smiles and his hand inches across the tabletop, closer to Victor’s. “You see, I find it quite easy to appreciate all kinds of beautiful things.”

Victor blinks a little, and then his expression softens. “Is that so? You find it easy?”

“Oh, yes, very easy, with you,” Yuuri says, and waits, and feels his heart clench with the tension of simply not knowing what to expect.

But Victor seems to glow as a smile spreads over his lips, and he closes the two-inch gap between their hands. “That’s funny. I find it very easy with you, too.”

Relief floods through Yuuri. Surely this means it’s okay for him to – to – initiate a kiss, perhaps? This _cannot_ be simply friendly, can it? Rising to his feet and deciding to take a leap of faith, he hauls Victor up with his heart drumming in his throat. “Come on, let’s go.”

Hands clasped together, they stumble together into a quiet, deserted alleyway; Victor noses at his cheek lightly and they both dissolve into nervous giggles. Victor lifts his hand to run it through Yuuri’s hair, giving him a look full of that same wonderment Yuuri saw in Marseilles.

“It really is incredible how much I like you, Yuuri,” he breathes. “A part of me doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand how a feeling can be so – so strong and… all-consuming.”

He brings his hand down to Yuuri’s chin, tilts it upward slightly with a smile. “But then, another part of me understands it perfectly. How could I not like you, after all?”

Yuuri is about to reply when the sound of footsteps approaching has them springing apart and away from each other. They simultaneously look up towards the end of the alleyway, where a group, of perhaps four or five silhouettes, is nearing them rapidly. Victor frowns a little and his grip on Yuuri’s hand tightens. “This doesn’t look too good,” he mutters.

When the group gets close enough Yuuri studies their faces, not particularly liking the hungry sort of malice he sees there, or the way in which the five circle them like sharks might.

Victor smiles at them pleasantly. “Good afternoon. What can we do for you young men today?”

The tallest one, who is dressed surprisingly neatly and has no real noticeable features but a deep scar running down the side of his face, smiles back equally pleasantly. “Well, we were just discussing the fact that you look like you come from a _fine_ family.”

Victor’s smile doesn’t falter. “Thank you.”

“Out shopping today, are we?” the tall one inquires politely.

“Oh, just wandering around the city. It’s a lovely day.”

“It is, it is.” Tall Guy bares his teeth in a wolfish grin. “But what I was _really_ asking there is, you wouldn’t happen to have any spare florins with you, would you?”

“I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Tall Guy steps a little closer and taps at the leather money bag hanging from Victor’s waist. “Nothing in here, really?”

“Nothing I’d hand over to you,” Victor says mildly.

Tall Guy simply observes them for a moment, before sighing dispiritedly and stepping back. “That’s a shame. I didn’t want my friends here to have to get involved, but… since you don’t seem to be in a very cooperative mood…”

The stocky, bristly-haired young man standing beside Tall Guy calmly draws back his arm and then punches Victor in the jaw. The sound of impact is loud enough to make Yuuri wince, but Victor doesn’t make a sound, only massaging his jaw lightly in the aftermath. Tall Guy seems marginally impressed, but on the whole more impatient. He reaches into his pocket and brings out something that glints as it catches the light; a small shard of glass, perhaps, arely bigger than his palm, but with sharp, jagged edges on all sides. He draws near and holds it close to Victor’s face, and then in a sudden, swift movement flicks it back towards his ear, crudely hacking off a section of hair and leaving a shallow cut in his cheek. Beads of blood start to appear there immediately.

Yuuri makes a sound of horror, but Victor only squeezes his hand and turns his face slightly to whisper, “It’s fine, Yuuri. Just stay close to me. Don’t worry.”

“You should worry, actually,” Tall Guy says frankly, glancing to his left, then his right. “Alright, this is taking too long. Let’s move this along, shall we?”

Bristly-Hair lifts his hand again, and then hesitates. “What about this one?” he asks, nodding his head towards Yuuri.

Tall Guy gives Yuuri a once-over with narrowed eyes. “He doesn’t have any valuables on him. But we don’t want him running off to tell pretty boy’s family about what happened, so…” He shrugs disinterestedly. “…yes, both of them.”

Yuuri’s pulse quickens even more as he looks wildly at Tall Guy. Tall Guy’s teeth gleam as he gives that animalistic grin again, pocketing his little glass shard and stepping back. “And let’s make it quick.”

Yuuri’s back hits the wall. His fingers slip from Victor’s, and he lands a weak kick on somebody’s shin. He hears an annoyed – but not particularly pained – noise, before dark, bitter eyes fill his vision, and the first of the blows finds its mark in his gut. It squeezes the breath out of him and he attempts to shield himself, but to no avail; untrained, unpractised, he is simply no match against two bulky street thieves.

He tries to look across at Victor – hoping he’s doing a better job defending himself – but Tall Guy’s dark silhouette blocks his view. His head is throbbing, and, nauseatingly, his surroundings start to spin.

 _It’s like we’re dancing_ _again_ , he thinks drowsily as the horizon tips. _This is what the world looked like, when I was in your arms. This is what it looked like when we danced._

Then the bottom of a shoe comes down on his face, and all at once the world disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry Yuuri had to die in such a brutal way!! It won't always be like that, I promise! And he'll be back very soon, in a very interesting time and place, so I hope you'll forgive me ^.^"
> 
> Your kudos and comments really do give me life ♡ even if it's something very short – like a sentence about what you liked most – I would appreciate a comment so much!! I really do love to hear from you, every comment leaves me smiling and feeds my motivation like crazy!
> 
> As always, if you'd like, please come visit me on Tumblr at [teapotte](http://teapotte.tumblr.com) :) I love to meet new people and chat, especially since I'm going through some not-so-great times with my friends irl right now, so some chill new friends would be ~godsend~


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